Chasing The Lab Rat
by White N Nerdy
Summary: We all know and love the episode “Chasing the Bus.” But what if the convict had lived and the only thing standing between him and freedom was Greg? Wow that’d be crazy. Let’s see what happens...
1. Part I

**Chasing the Lab Rat**

_Rated T for violence and language._

**Foreword**

I especially enjoy television inspired fan fictions in which a completely inconsequential scene in some random episode is altered in a way that it makes a new and exciting story. A good example of this is the "Thoughtless Consequences" story by Goody. And…uh…well I'm sure there are lots more.

I've been an on and off watcher of the show since it started, and one episode I always liked was "Chasing the Bus." But what if something had gone different? Like if that convict survived the crash. That would change _a lot_, especially for everyone's favorite lab rat who wandered out of the DNA lab and into the chaotic crime scene.

Beginning just after the incident with the blood vomiting bus driver, I give you the new and very exciting "Chasing the Bus."

**Part I**

"Sorry…"

"It's alright, man. Just stop apologizing."

"Sorry," he started to mutter again before he remembered to bite his tongue. The glare on Nick Stokes' face was enough to shut anyone up.

Nick turned away and moved swiftly down the steep, rocky hill while keeping a tight grip on the safety cords that had been put in place. Greg Sanders was lagging behind him, still trying to apologize for his actions.

"I guess I just wasn't expecting blood to look like that. Pre collection it's so different."

Nick sighed as he reached flat ground again. He couldn't help but be reminded of his own first solo case as a CSI. It had been called in as a simple B and E, but when he arrived there were three bodies, children included, soaking in pools of their own blood. He hadn't been expecting it, and that's why it scared him. He had half a mind to tell Greg this story now, but thought better of it.

What Greg saw was no comparison. The driver had simply puked up a little blood. But he'd frozen up in absolute terror, not even responding to Nick's yelling at him to get a doctor. When the doctor had finally come around, and the bus driver was taken away on a stretcher, Greg promptly dashed towards the shrubbery and threw up his stomach contents.

"It was just a surprise," Greg said quickly in an attempt to disband any hint of discomfort in his voice.

Nick finally turned to face the young man, who had to stop dead in his tracts to avoid walking into the CSI.

"Listen, G," he said with a sigh. "I don't know what made you think you should come out here, but you obviously aren't prepared for this kind of stuff." He watched the younger man shuffle his feet and stuff his hands in his pockets, his gaze never leaving the ground. He was acting like a little kid that had been told off for misbehaving. "Maybe you should go back to the lab before you freeze or something."

Greg's head snapped to attention and his wide eyes met Nick's. "No way man. They said all hands on deck, so here I am. I can handle it, really! I can collect evidence and take pictures and all that crap…"

"No," Nick called back to Greg as he started towards the crash site. "You're here to take my notes. That's all, Greggo. Now let's go see what we can find on that bus."

* * *

"Greg…"

He was awoken from his thoughts by the sound of his own name. He couldn't help but picture in his mind what his boss, Gilbert Grissom, had just told him. A head in a can of paint. It must have been a really small head—or a really big thing of paint. Greg had half a mind to pick up a can from Home Depot after shift and see if his own head would fit in a gallon sized bucket of paint…

"Greg, bag this," Grissom was saying as he held out plastic bag to Greg. He pulled his hands out of his pockets, definitely regretting that he didn't have a warmer coat. His frozen fingers grasped the bag and he fumbled with it for a moment before he was finally able to open it and hold it out to Nick.

"Take it back to the lab and swab the rim for DNA."

Greg nodded as the broken bottle dropped into his bag.

"You should be wearing gloves."

Greg stopped and blinked at Grissom. Oh, great what was he supposed to do now? Drop the bag and get a pair of latex gloves? Did this mean Grissom was giving him advice for future field work? Or was already it too late?

His supervisor raised an eyebrow at him.

"Oh, sorry," he finally muttered once he realized he'd been silent for a good minute. But Grissom was already walking away, with Nick in tow. Both were shaking their heads at what Greg assumed was his own incompetence. He stood there, feeling stupid for a second before spinning on his heel and heading back up the hill.

"Stupid, Greg," he growled to himself. "Real stupid."

His first time out of the lab and he'd already screwed up. He looked down at the sample he held in his freezing hand. The least he could do was process the evidence and get Grissom some good news. Maybe that would make up for what he did wrong, and they would let him out again.

Greg nearly stumbled as he crossed the road, carefully avoiding the markers and crime scene tape. He saw the backs of a couple of people in CSI jackets, scrutinizing the ground with their flashlights. He recognized one in particular, a petite brunette, and had half a mind to go talk to her. But Sara Sidle would probably just ignore him anyway. After all, she only talked to him in the lab when she wasn't really intensely focused on something. And she looked pretty focused now.

Shrugging to himself Greg continued the walk to his car, taking one final look behind him just to see if she noticed him. Nope, she was staring at the ground. Oh well. Even if she knew he was there she probably would have criticized him for screwing up, too. All the more reason for him to hurry and get the evidence he clutched in his frozen hand back to the lab.

He ducked under the final strip of crime scene tape, the one that separated the crash scene from the rest of the empty road. Greg's car was parked out here, on the opposite side of the highway. He had purposely parked far away and off the pavement, figuring it would be best if he was out of the way in case an ambulance or something had to get through. He knew they wouldn't let his car any closer to the scene anyway—it wasn't official looking enough. He sighed. His crappy little red '99 Honda. The second car he'd ever owned and the first car he'd bought by himself.

He fished his keys out of his pocket, still holding the evidence bag like his life depended on it, and moved around the car to the front driver's side door. He was just about to put the key in the lock when he heard a crunch coming from behind him in the dark. He practically jumped out of skin and turned, clutching his keys and the evidence to his chest in surprise.

Behind him, moving forward out of the shadowed desert, was a man with a scruffy dark beard dressed in dark, ruffled clothing. Greg noticed the mystery man looked older than he was and, he noted with dread, that he was a lot bigger, too. But there was something weird about the way he was walking forward—he was staggering, as though he could barely stay on his feet. Greg, feeling that the threat level had gone down significantly, cleared his throat.

"Hey, man," he called as bravely as he could to the figure that stood barely five feet from him. "Are you…um, okay?"

The guy stepped forward and Greg finally got a good look at his face in the dim light. He looked like he was drenched in red—blood was stuck in his hair and dripping down onto his clothes from somewhere on his head. The entire front of his face was streaked with blood.

"Oh, shit, dude… Were you in the bus accident? There're ambulances down there, they could help you out or…"

"Are you a cop?"

Greg was taken aback by the rough sounding voice that cut him off. "Uh…no I work for the crime lab…"

"You're going to get me out of here."

Greg blinked. "Um…what? Why? The ambulance is like right there," he trailed off, pointing toward the brightly lit crime scene, suddenly wishing he had parked closer to it. "They can help you out with your…your head or whatever…"

The man stepped forward, forcing Greg to take a nervous step back until he was pressed against his own car with nowhere else to go. He saw the light from the distant crime scene reflected off of something in the man's hand. Greg gulped when he realized it was a knife.

"The cops can't know I was on the bus," the injured man said. "So you're going to help me get out of here." He emphasized his point by bringing his little pocket knife to Greg's throat.

Greg swallowed hard and immediately regretted the action as his skin was pressed further against the knife. "O-okay, okay," he gasped. "I'll help you…"

"Good," the man said as he eased the knife away from Greg's neck and forced the younger man to turn and face the car. "Now unlock the door and get in. You're driving."

Greg didn't even think—he just did as he was told, all too conscious of the close proximity of the man standing behind him and the blade that was now poking into the small of his back. His attacker only stepped back enough for Greg to open the car door and get into the driver's seat.

"Unlock the other side," the man said. Greg leaned over and pulled up the lock on the passenger side door. "Good. Now buckle up and don't try anything." He slammed Greg's door shut once the seat belt was buckled and moved around the front of the car, his eyes never leaving Greg's.

Greg, meanwhile, sat stone still in the car, still unsure how he was processing the whole situation. He wasn't really scared. More…confused—confused that this crazy guy had the balls to hijack someone just outside of a crime scene. The way the man was acting convinced Greg that he had somehow caused the bus accident and now Greg was supposed to be his chauffer away from police custody.

Yeah right.

The second the man had gotten to his side of the car Greg snapped to attention, unbuckled his seatbelt and pushed open the door, all the while making sure to hang on to the evidence Grissom had entrusted to him.

He'd just gotten his head out of the car when he felt himself being yanked back by the collar of his track jacket. Greg's attacker may have been suffering from a bloody head injury, but that didn't mean the guy wasn't strong. In a second he'd wrenched Greg back into his seat and pressed the little knife back against Greg's throat, this time hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

"H-hey, take it easy…" Greg gasped, his fear suddenly taking over as the sharp blade cut into his neck.

"I told you not to try anything," the man growled, shaking Greg hard as he did so. "You're lucky I don't cut you open right now."

"Ah…okay, okay," Greg said, panic evident in his voice. "That's not really necessary…"

"And what the hell is _that_?"

Greg blinked. What was what? He followed the other man's gaze to Greg's chest, where he was still clutching the evidence bag with white knuckled fists. "It-it's just…evidence…"

"That's mine!" The man relented his grip on Greg's jacket and snatched the evidence bag out of Greg's hands was a short laugh. "You found my boos…" His good mood was dashed however when he realized the whiskey bottle in the brown bag was broken. "Damn, what a waste…"

Greg could do nothing but watch as the evidence was tossed haphazardly into the back seat of his car. Oh man, Grissom was going to be so pissed at him… He'd never let Greg come to another crime scene again.

"Take off your jacket," Greg's attacker demanded. He reached over Greg and pulled the door shut again before finally relenting the blade from the lab rat's throat.

"Why?" Greg was genuinely confused. His jacket…?

The man was clearly loosing what little patience he had. "Because mine's ripped and stained and it's cold out so I want your jacket," he growled, his voice rising slightly with each word.

"Fine," Greg said as he slowly eased the thin jacket off his shoulders. "Here, take it."

His attacker did take it, but made no move to take his own jacket off. "Now buckle up and start the damn car. We're getting the hell out of here."

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Greg muttered as he did as he was told. He managed to keep a somewhat brave façade, when in reality he was becoming more and more fearful of his situation. The hijacker was clearly unstable and the last thing Greg wanted to do was leave the crime scene. But, seeing as how he didn't really have a choice, at least not with the knife still pointed at him, Greg stepped on the gas and eased out onto the highway.

"Good. Just keep going. Nice and easy."

"Where are we going?" Greg dared to ask.

"Nowhere," his attacker growled. "So keep driving and shut the hell up."

Greg did, deducing that cooperation with the man would be his best option right now. He would just drive really slowly, and hopefully the CSIs would eventually notice he was gone and would be able to find him. Hopefully.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched the man ease out of his leather jacket and toss it into the back seat with the evidence bag. He started pulling on Greg's jacket, all the while muttering how it was "too small."

He'd just gotten the jacket on when he noticed the ID badge clipped to the front breast pocket. He yanked it off and got a good look at it, and in a second the knife was in Greg's neck again.

Greg barely managed to keep the car on the road as he jerked in surprise from the sudden attack. "Wha—?"

"I thought you said you weren't a cop?!" the man roared at him.

"I'm not!" Greg gasped, finding it hard to focus on driving while being threatened and yelled at.

"It says 'LVPD' on your badge and you were at the bus crash…you must be a cop!" He was still yelling, only now he sounded horrified by his own realization that he had just hijacked a cop.

"Do I _look_ like a cop to you?" Greg said defensively and as bravely as he could. "Read the rest of the thing—it says I am a _laboratory technician_. I work with Crime Scene Investigators, not cops. That's why I have your bottle in an _evidence_ bag. It's my _job_."

But the man still looked skeptical as he held the knife to Greg's throat.

"Could you ease up already?" Greg continued. "It's kinda hard to drive like this. You'll ending making my car crash just like you made the bus crash."

Finally the man pulled back, but his narrowed gaze never left Greg's face. "You think I caused the crash?" he said in low and malicious voice

Greg swallowed hard and immediately regretted voicing his suspicions in the first place. "Yeah…well…it is kinda weird that you wanted out of there so fast…"

"I didn't do it," the man said honestly.

Greg blinked in surprise but kept his eyes on the road ahead of him. "Well…then…why do I have to drive you out of there? You should have just gone in an ambulance or something…"

"Just 'cause I didn't cause the crash doesn't mean I'm completely innocent," the man snapped. "The name's Calvin. Calvin McBride."

He paused, as though Greg should recognize the name and react appropriately. Greg wracked his mind but couldn't come up with anything. The only Calvin that he could think of was from _Calvin and Hobbes_, but that was a cartoon character. If he'd worked on McBride's case, he might remember what the guy's DNA looked like, but names…Greg was never good with names, or spelling them for that matter.

"Nothing?" McBride said, his anger rising again. "You work for the cops and you haven't heard of me before?"

Greg shook his head, though he suddenly wished he had heard of him before, or at least what he might have done to his victims.

"Well, I just got out," the convict continued. "I served my time and now I'm out."

"So…why the hell are you running away?" Greg said, now very confounded. "If you didn't cause the accident, you should be fine…"

"I wasn't supposed to be on a bus," McBride admitted. "I was violating my parole."

"Oh." Greg didn't know what else to say. This whole thing was a stupid waste of time to him. All he wanted to do was go back to the lab and process Grissom's evidence. "Well…you want me to just take you back? We could forget this whole thing ever happened…"

"No way, man," McBride said with a shake of his head. "If you assumed I did it, then so will everyone else who knows I have a rap sheet. Hell I _wish_ I crashed the bus. That would've actually been a cool thing to be arrested for."

Greg wasn't so sure what was so cool about crashing a bus. But it made him nervous to think of what this guy could have possible done to put him in jail in the first place. He swallowed hard and asked in a small voice, "what _did_ you get arrested for?"

To Greg's surprise, McBride actually answered his question. "Aggravated assault with a deadly weapon."

"Oh," Greg muttered. He felt somewhat relieved that the convict hadn't in fact murdered anyone. At least not yet.

Another moment of awkward silence passed before Greg asked another question.

"Why were you violating your parole in the first place?"

"What is it with you, kid?" McBride growled angrily. "You just like pissing people off with your stupid questions?"

"No," Greg countered quickly. "I would just like to know where _exactly_ I'm supposed to be driving to."

Greg was getting even more nervous as they were now miles away from the crime scene or any civilization for that matter. The only thing ahead of him or on either side was the dark, cold desert.

"I've got a score to settle with an old buddy of mine," McBride said simply.

Greg paled. "Oh, yeah sure," he said as bravely as he could. "He owes you money or whatever…maybe over the game…something harmless like that…right?"

"I'm gonna stab the son of a bitch…which means I'm probably gonna have to off you too now for telling you that."

Greg choked and clenched the steering wheel tightly in his shaking hands. He was afraid McBride would say that. "I…I don't think that'll be necessary," Greg said, his voice shaking significantly as he stumbled over his words. "I can forget you said anything…"

"That's impossible. You work for the cops—you'd be the first guy to snitch on me."

_Crap_, Greg thought miserably. This crazy guy was going to kill him for being at a crime scene he wasn't even supposed to be at that in the first place.

"But who knows," McBride said with a shrug. "If you play it real cool and get me the hell outta Nevada, maybe I'll forget I have to kill you."

"Oh, yeah," Greg said as he let out a tense breath. "I'm cool. No problem."

"You know what'd be really cool?"

"Uh, what's that?"

"If you would shut the fuck up and keep your eyes on the God damn road!" McBride yelled.

Greg flinched at the harshness of his tone and did as he was told. He kept his eyes glued to the road that was only illuminated a few feet in front of him by his headlights. Things were not looking good, but Greg figured that so long as he cooperated he would at least be able to get out of this with his life. Hopefully. He just wished he would stop shivering.

They drove in silence for a while before Greg heard McBride rummaging through the glove compartment. Greg could hear the rattling of the Tic Tac box, a shuffling of papers, and then McBride slamming his hands on the dashboard in frustration.

"You don't have any drugs in here? No pain killers…not even a bottle of Aspirin?"

Greg remembered to bite his tongue and shook his head mutely.

"God damn it," McBride muttered. "I've got a fucking headache."

The convict rummaged through the glove compartment once more for good measure, then seemed to stop moving altogether. Greg couldn't see what he'd found, but McBride slowly sat upright again in his seat with something clenched in his fist.

"Pull over somewhere…over there, behind those rocks."

Greg swallowed hard and pulled over the car in the direction McBride was pointing. He hadn't said anything and he was cooperating with the convict, so he wasn't going to be killed…right?

"That's real good," McBride said as he reached over and pulled the key out of the ignition. They sat in eerie silence for a moment, now without even the car's engine as background noise.

Greg might have been thinking of saying something, anything, just to break the uncomfortable silence, when McBride interrupted his thoughts.

"Hey, kid…look at this."

Reluctantly Greg turned his head to look at McBride and came face to face with a small, grey cylindrical object with the nozzle pointed right at him. Greg paled considerably as his stomach performed fear induced summersaults. McBride had gotten that out of Greg's glove compartment. His mom had always made Greg kept it in his car, just in case he'd ever needed some sort of protection, especially while he was living in the city.

Before Greg could even think of reacting, McBride pressed down on the handle and sprayed Greg right in the face. The burning liquid got in Greg's eyes and he cried out at the painful sensation, only to feel the agony in his throat as some of the chemical entered his mouth. McBride didn't have his finger on the pepper spray trigger for long, but it was more than enough for Greg.

"_Shit!_" he croaked as he wiped at his eyes. He'd never been pepper sprayed before, but he could easily say now that it was probably the most painful thing he'd ever experienced. He couldn't even see as McBride reached for him and grabbed a handful of his spiky hair.

Greg felt his head being pulled back and slammed against his window. His left temple hit hard, but he couldn't even yell anymore because of the burning in his throat. McBride pulled back again and bashed Greg even harder this time against the solid glass. Greg heard a sickening thud when his head made contact and felt sticky warm liquid ooze down his face. Then McBride finally released his hair and Greg slumped down in his seat, unconscious.

* * *

"Just what you'd expect," CSI coroner Dr. Al Robbins said as he looked over the corpse of bus driver. "Massive injuries, internal bleeding."

Nick nodded. "So it's not the driver…"

"We're looking at the bus," Grissom said matter-of-factly. "Nicky, you haven't seen Greg around, have you?"

Nick shook his head.

"Sanders?" Doc Robbins interjected. "I heard it was his first time out in the field. Little out of his comfort zone, don't you think?"

Grissom peered at the doctor over his glasses. "And what would make you say that?"

Robbins nodded his head to Nick. "Because he said it."

Nick glared at him for a moment before shrugging in defeat. "Well, it's true, isn't it? Now don't get me wrong or anything—I like Greg, he's a great guy—but he should just stay in his DNA lab where he knows what's going on, you know what I'm saying?"

"Well, I think that's for Greg to determine for himself," Grissom said wisely. "I would like to know where he is though. He never came back with my evidence this morning."

"You mean the whiskey bottle?"

Grissom nodded. "I need to confirm whose it was if the driver had no alcohol in his system."

"The missing convict…"

"My thoughts exactly. Brass is still on it, though I doubt we're looking at him for causing the accident."

Nick was skeptical. "Why not?"

"The evidence is telling us the bus crashed due to external tampering. If our convict did disable the vehicle, I doubt he would ride knowing the bus would crash. He was breaking parole, not suicidal."

Nick nodded in agreement. "I'll head to the garage to check out the bus and see what was tampered with."

"Good. And if you see Greg, tell him to stop hiding from me. He knows better than that, even if you are spreading rumors about how poorly he did in the field."

With that Grissom turned and left the morgue, leaving a guilty looking Nick and Doc Robbins saying to the young CSI, "he sure told you."

_

* * *

_

Keep in mind for Part II of this very random story that I've followed the CSI ideal that processing evidence and catching crooks and stuff happens impossibly fast. So while Greg's on a road trip, the rest of the episode happens like it normally would :)


	2. Part II

**Chasing the Lab Rat**

**Part II**

Greg's head was pounding and his body felt painfully numb, but he couldn't remember why. He wrenched his eyes open and found himself staring up at two very familiar faces.

"Griss? Brass? What…?"

If they heard what he was saying they pointedly ignored him.

"Hey, Jim," Grissom said as he addressed the detective.

"Hey, Gil," Brass returned.

"Nice day."

"Sure is."

It was in fact a very nice morning. The sun was up and it was warm, but not the sweltering dry heat like it normally was in the desert. And they must have been pretty far out, because the only thing that could be seen for miles all around was golden desert sand.

"Hey…hey you guys," Greg was saying. "Does someone want to tell me what's going on?"

"We found the DB here," Brass said, still not looking at Greg. "In the desert. Pretty sure it was a body dump."

Grissom nodded and looked at where Brass was indicating. Greg followed their gazes and saw that they were looking at a Caucasian male body, naked, stiff and…headless?

"Still can't believe where you found the head, Gil."

With that Grissom lifted a hefty can of blood red paint in his hand for them to see. "Kid had a small cranium." Then they both turned and stared right at Greg. "Could have picked a better color, though. I'm partial to blue, myself."

"Good…you be Mr. Blue, he's Mr. Red, and I'm Mr. Shit," Brass said with his usual serious expression while he nodded to the head.

"There was no Mr. _Red_," Grissom insisted. "Besides—Greg's more of a Mr. Pink anyway…"

Greg's jaw dropped when he realized that they had been looking at _his_ headless body, and that it was _his_ head that was found in a bucket of paint. It suddenly dawned on him why he couldn't feel the rest of his body.

"Oh my God," Greg said in panic. "I'm…I was…how did…"

"I told you, Greggo," a slightly accented Texan voice said. Greg looked up at Nick, who was now standing with the driver from the bus accident where Grissom and Brass had just been. "You don't belong in the field."

The bus driver's eyes suddenly bulged as he gasped and started spewing blood out of his mouth. He was making horrible retching and gurgling sounds, and Greg would have thrown up too had his stomach still been attached to his head.

"You had one thing to do, Greg," Nick continued casually while the other man vomited gallons and gallons of blood. "You just had to take Grissom's evidence back to the lab. And you couldn't even do that…"

Greg awoke with a gasp and felt cold sweat on his brow as he took deep calming breaths. For a second he was so disoriented from the strange dream that he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there. Then it all came flooding back to him—McBride in the car while he drove, then he pulled over, and the pepper spray…

_Thanks a lot, mom_, Greg thought bitterly. He'd never even had to use the stuff before. But his mother had insisted that if he was living and working in the city he would need to take the precaution. It was either that, or she would make him come back home where he was…_safer_.

He opened his eyes a crack and winced as they still burned from the pepper spray. That and it was suddenly very bright out. The last thing he remembered before his head was bashed in was that it was dark and cold and he'd stopped the car. Now the sun was up, he was very warm, and, he realized with panic, that the car was moving again.

"You waking up, kid?"

Greg moaned in response and McBride chuckled.

"I was afraid I broke your head or something. You were out of it longer than I was, so I took over the driving. Hope you don't mind."

It took a lot of effort, but Greg managed to force his eyes open enough to see the fuzzy shape of the convict's body in the driver's seat. Greg was now in the front passenger seat. He tried to move to rub at his sore eyes but found that he couldn't lift his arms. He struggled for a second before he realized that he was strapped into the seat by the seat belt that was wrapped twice around his torso and arms before it was buckled in. Greg couldn't reach the release button if he wanted to.

McBride saw Greg trying to move and explained that it was "just a precaution. You know, in case you woke up before I did. Couldn't have you getting away and calling the cops."

Greg guessed that made sense, but he wished McBride would take the seatbelt off of him. It was constricting painfully against his chest. And his head hurt. A lot. He could feel the sticky blood on the side of his face that was still wet on his skin as it mixed with his sweat. He had been freezing the night before, but now that the sun had risen he was sweltering hot. McBride had his window down while he drove Greg's car, but very little of the breeze made it to where Greg was sitting.

Between the stifling heat and the pounding head injury, Greg was finding it very hard to stay awake. McBride was talking again, but Greg couldn't understand a word was saying. He couldn't even open his eyes wide enough to see the other man.

Soon he felt himself falling asleep again, his last cohesive thought being: _Man, I hope I don't have any more weird dreams…_

* * *

"Chloroform, glass rod…according to Trace it's like pissing on a rope."

Sara Sidle knelt down between Grissom and fellow CSI Warrick Brown to demonstrate her theory on the bus' tire.

"You know what else I heard from Trace?" she asked as she looked up at Grissom. "Vincent said that Greg 'disgraced the lab' last night at the crime scene."

"Ah, yeah," Warrick said with a chuckle. "Everyone's talking smack about Sanders. You know how it is—word spreads fast around here."

"Well," Sara said, glaring at her coworker. "He didn't _disgrace _anyone. It was Greg's first time out in the field on a chaotic scene…you'd think people would cut him a break."

"I haven't even seen Greg today," Grissom said. "I think he still has my evidence…"

"Kid probably freaked and played hooky for the day," Warrick said.

Sara gave him a fierce look.

"Hey, I'm just saying that's probably what happened. Sanders was embarrassed after last night and decided not to show his face in the lab. Frankly, I don't blame him. I hate workplace gossip."

Sara rolled her eyes and turned back to the task at hand. She undid the bus' tire valve and placed the glass rod gingerly against it.

"Whatever the reason," Grissom said. "Greg can't expect to be able to skip work just because something makes him uncomfortable. Whatever the problem may be, he needs to be able to face it, head on…"

* * *

The car moved shakily as it rode over the rough desert road terrain. Greg groaned as each bump aggravated his headache. He'd been sitting through this for what must have been hours of awkward silence. McBride seemed to be in a worse mood than he was the first time Greg had woken up. The convict kept sending frustrated glares in Greg's direction all the while muttering little curses under his breath. Greg ignored him and focused on what was outside his window. He noticed with dread that the sun was steadily moving lower in the sky. Greg had no idea where they were, but he did know that he did not want to continue this road trip for another long night.

Enough sweat had formed on Greg's arms so he could just manage to slip his right forearm out of the seatbelt without McBride even noticing. The shoulder strap was still across his chest and around his waist, but at least now it was a little looser and he could reach the release button when an opportunity arose.

Greg's chance came very quickly as McBride's angry mumbling became more audible. It seemed he was debating over whether or not he should kill Greg now or wait until it was dark. He was rambling nonsensically and didn't even notice when Greg slowly and silently undid his seatbelt restrictions.

"If I wait until night, no one'll see me and I can just dump him in the desert…but then they'll find him in the morning…cops'll know it was me—they'll be waiting for me…probably looking for the kid's car already," McBride grumbled. "Let him go, cops'll arrest me…kill him, and I'm in deep shit for killing a guy who works with the cops, even if I don't get to kill Mikey…but as long as they don't find him, I can dump the car and no one will ever know it was me."

Satisfied with his decision, the convict turned slightly to look at Greg out of the corner of his eye. "How about it, kid? You wanna pick how you die?"

But instead of getting a verbal answer, a pleading "oh no, please don't kill me" like he expected, he received a hearty punch in the nose.

"Fuck!" McBride shrieked while he tried in vain to keep the car from veering off the road.

Greg, meanwhile, had gotten his right arm free enough to sock McBride in the face, but found that he was still entangled in the seatbelt. While McBride was recovering from the first blow and trying to keep the car steady, Greg pulled back and punched him again, this time in the jaw hard enough to crack Greg's knuckles.

He pulled back with a wince and tried once again to untwine himself from his seatbelt. He struggled quickly in a panic, hoping to get loose before McBride could recover and retaliate. In his haste though, Greg only managed to make his situation worse as he tried to pull his seatbelt over his head with his left wrist still wrapped in it. He was left in a very awkward position with his arm pulled across his chest and his wrist and forearm throbbing from the tightened restraints.

McBride recovered with a curse and forced the car well off the road where it lurched through a ditch and over rough desert terrain before finally coming to a stop. He cursed again as he rotated his aching jaw and turned off the car.

"You little shit," he growled as he pulled his switchblade out of his pocket with a shaking hand and undid his own seat belt. "Now I'm gonna stick you and watch while you bleed to death."

The convict advanced over the car's center console with a maniacal grin and the little blade held tight in his fist.

"Oh, crap, crap, crap…" Greg mumbled as he struggled to free himself. He twisted his right arm behind him to reach for the door handle but it wouldn't budge. 

Locked in his own car. McBride watched for a moment in amusement before pulling his arm back to stab Greg in the chest.

Greg ducked out of the way at the last second and tipped over to the right against the dashboard while his left arm was still held up by the seatbelt. With his side now exposed McBride's knife found a new target and embedded itself just below Greg's rib cage. Greg couldn't even scream—he was more surprised than anything else. Then he panicked as the burning pain started and blood oozed out of the wound.

Greg reacted spastically and kicked out one of his legs at the convict, only to lose what little balance he still had on his seat. He slipped downward ass first into the foot space of the passenger seat. But while the rest of his body fell, his left arm remained wrapped in the seatbelt. The arm straightened but didn't budge, even as the limb twisted and a sickening crack echoed in the car.

Even McBride stopped at the sound and Greg felt agonizing pain spread up his arm from his wrist on top of the already excruciating stab wound. Greg stopped struggling then and let his upper body fall heavily against the dashboard of the car while he sat awkwardly in the foot space. Things were definitely not going Greg's way.

He felt McBride lean over him but left his switchblade where it was in Greg's side. Instead he wrapped his hands around the lab rat's neck and squeezed. Greg finally opened his mouth to scream as the convict forced him further down against the floor, pulling on his now broken wrist and stabbed side. But no sound came out as Greg choked and sputtered and tried in vain to take a breath. His vision was going darker and it was becoming harder and harder to focus…

He let his right hand fall heavily to his side and squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to look at the man that was slowly strangling him to death. It took a second for Greg's brain to process that his fingers were suddenly brushing against something on the floor. Something hard, and plastic, and tubular…

Greg didn't think—he just grabbed the pepper spray in his fist and brought it up to the face that was leering over him. He squeezed the trigger and held it until all of the painful substance was in the convict's face, even as his own eyes burned again from the excess chemicals.

McBride screamed and finally released Greg's throat so he could rub at his tearing eyes. Greg took deep agonizing breaths and coughed while McBride suddenly threw himself backwards against the driver's seat all the while screaming and cursing and rubbing madly at his face with his hands. He somehow managed to get the door open, but in his haste to get out of the car his head collided with the sturdy metal door frame and he fell back into the seat, unconscious.

Greg stayed where he was on the floor, gasping as he processed in his mind what had just happened. And then he laughed. It was a painful, choking kind of laugh that turned quickly into a hoarse coughing fit, but still Greg couldn't help but think how lucky he was to be alive and how very amusing McBride's latest actions had been.

He was still for a long time catching his breath before he even tried to move again. Sitting up hurt a lot and he didn't get much further than the seat. Looking down he felt sick to his stomach when he saw the knife still sticking out of his side while blood dribbled out of the wound and stained his T shirt. He looked away again, figuring if he didn't acknowledge it, it wouldn't bother him. He finally managed to unwind his left wrist from the seatbelt and cringed at the deep bruises forming on his already swelling arm.

He cradled the limb to his chest and turned around to see the back seat of his car. The evidence was still there waiting to be processed. Greg snatched it up with his good hand and held it tightly in his fist, determined to not let Grissom down. But first, he would need some help.

The convict was still wearing Greg's jacket, and, luckily for Greg, his cell phone was still inside of it. Greg almost cried with relief as he started dialing, hoping that someone would be able to get him out of this mess.

* * *

Grissom was sitting in his office, looking over some last minute paper work regarding the bus case. Sara had successfully retrieved and identified a hand print from the bus' tire that led the CSIs to suspect a disgruntled worker, Sean Nolin, who must have tampered with the bus during its rest stop in Barstow. But it was a long way out and as much as Grissom would like to see the guy being arrested, he really just wanted to sit in his office and play with his bug collection.

He sighed and was just about to force himself off his seat when his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. It said "Sanders Cell" on the display and Grissom raised an eyebrow. Greg hadn't been in the lab all day, though everyone just assumed it was because of his experiences out in the field the night before. Grissom wondered if Greg was calling now to apologize for not showing up the rest of shift.

"Grissom," he said as he flipped open his phone.

"Oh, Griss, thank God," Greg said breathlessly on the other line. "I only have like one bar of service so I was kind of screwed if you didn't pick up the phone…so, uh, do you think you could come give me a ride?"

"Slow down, Greg," Grissom said into the phone, his brows now furrowed with concern as he could hear that something was definitely wrong with Greg. "A ride? Where are you?"

"Uh…I don't know…could you just find me? Like, ASAP, before I lose my phone connection. I still can't believe I actually got any service out here…"

"Out where?" Grissom asked as he practically ran to the AV lab to trace the call.

"I dunno…in the desert somewhere…"

"What are you doing in the desert?"

"Who's in the desert?" Archie Johnson asked when Grissom came barging into his lab.

"Greg's in the desert," Grissom said as he put the phone on speaker and held it out to Archie. "I need you to trace this so we can find him."

"Oh, really?" Archie said as he plugged Grissom's phone into his computer to start the trace. "I heard Greg screwed up big time in the field last night. Is it true he barfed when he saw some guy's blood?"

"Who told you that?!" Greg's muffled voice yelled through the phone. "Was it Nick? I'll bet it was Nick, that son of a bitch…" Greg finished his statement with a hoarse sounding coughing fit that made Archie send Grissom a concerned look.

"Greg, are you okay?"

"No, Grissom, I'm not okay," Greg said in a strained and panicked tone. "I need someone to pick me up, _now_!"

"Archie's tracking your phone now, Greg," Grissom said calmly. "Just keep talking. What are you doing in the desert?"

"I've got a suspect for the bus crash," Greg said with another hacking cough. "He says he didn't do it, but he's a convict, so he could be lying. I'm pretty sure he's lying…"

"Greg, we already know who is responsible for the bus accident. Who's with you?"

"Some convict…Calvin McBride…he was breaking parole so I stopped him."

"Wow, way to go Greg."

"Focus, Archie."

"Sorry, Griss."

"Is he there with you now, Greg?"

"Yeah," Greg said, his voice becoming more strained with every word he said. "And when he wakes up he's going to be super _pissed_ which is why I need you to pick me up."

"Got him," Archie said triumphantly. "Geez, Greg. You got pretty far."

"Great, now can someone _please_ come get me?" He was practically whining now, his voice laced with desperation.

"Yeah, Greg. I'm on my way now I'll be there as quickly as I can. Are you hurt?"

There was a static pause on the other line before Greg answered with a shaky, "yeah, kind of."

A worried look crossed Grissom's face as he nodded his thanks to Archie and left the lab. "Just stay on the line, Greg. Keep talking and I'll be there soon."

"But Grissom, my phone is dying and I don't know what to talk about and I—"

Grissom heard a click than the steady beeping of a dial tone. "Greg? Greg?"

"What was that about?"

Grissom closed his cell and looked up at CSI Catherine Willows who had joined him in his walk down the hallway.

"Cath, I'm not going to be able to come with you for the bus case."

"What? But I thought—"

Grissom shook his head. "Something came up."

She looked skeptical. "With Greg Sanders? Who didn't even _bother_ showing up for work today?"

Grissom nodded but didn't slow his step. "I think he's in trouble. He just called me, said he didn't know where he was. I had Archie run a trace, and it turns out Greg is out in the desert, apparently with our missing convict."

Catherine's eyes widened and her jaw dropped. "Oh my God…how did that happen?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to go find out."

"Yeah…sure. Get Brass to go with you—he's been looking for McBride all day."

Grissom nodded. "Thanks Cath."

"Good luck, Griss. Take care of Greggy for us."

He sent her a grateful smile before disappearing around a corner as he headed for the garage. He pulled out his cell phone again and dialed a new number.

"Jim? It's Gil. How do you feel about road trips?"

* * *

The Denali sped down the desert highway, its lights flashing and sirens ringing in tune with the two other squad cars and the ambulance that followed it. Detective Jim Brass kept his foot on the gas pedal in the lead of the convoy while Grissom kept his eyes glued to the passing scenery. They met no resistance on the practically deserted roadways as they raced the fading sunlight to their destination. They needed to find Greg before it got too dark to see anything in the empty desert.

"We're getting close, Jim," Grissom said as he stared at the tracking device that followed the trace Archie had made on Greg's cell phone. Grissom spotted something shiny in front of a protruding rock formation. "Over there."

Brass nodded and turned the wheel of the Denali sharply to the right in the direction Grissom was pointing. The other cars followed as the Denali came to a stop in front of the scene. A little red car was there in the middle of a clearing with Greg sitting on its hood.

The lab rat was sitting Indian style on the car, hunched over with his right elbow on his knee and his head resting heavily on his fisted hand. But once he heard the sirens 

of the approaching vehicles, he immediately jerked to attention and dropped the cell phone that he'd held tight in his fist.

"…'s about damn time," he slurred as Grissom and Brass exited the Denali and started towards him.

"Jesus, Sanders," Brass muttered when they saw the state Greg was in.

He was still hunched over, with his left arm cradled to his chest, but raised his head enough for them to see that the entire left side of his face was covered in blood and his eyes looked painfully red and bloodshot.

As Grissom approached, Greg moved his shaking left arm to hand the CSI what he'd been clutching to his chest.

"I've still…got your evidence…Griss…"

Grissom cleared his throat. "Thank you, Greg," he said as he gently took the plastic bag from Greg. He noticed with dread that Greg's left wrist was bruised and swollen. "That doesn't look good, though."

"Oh, yeah," Greg muttered. "But I think this is kinda worse…" He shifted his legs with a wince and moved his injured arm upwards so Grissom could just see the hilt of a switchblade sticking out of his side. "…didn't take it out…not s'pose to, I think…"

Brass was already yelling for the EMTs. Blood was flowing freely out of the wound and Greg looked close to passing out.

"You're going to be okay, Greg," Grissom said, as he put a gentle hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Just hang on…you're okay."

"Yeah…'m okay…"

"This must be McBride," Brass called from where he was looking into the car. "He's out cold," the detective said, sounding impressed. "What the hell did you do to him, Sanders?"

Greg coughed lightly and winced. "P-pepper spray…he hit his head…or something…"

"That's good, Greg," Grissom said as he moved out of the way for the paramedics to work.

"Thanks, Griss," Greg said with a weak smile. "…means a lot…"

But Grissom couldn't return the sentiment, as Greg was suddenly surrounded by paramedics. They carefully assessed his wounds and strapped him to a backboard while Brass and the other officers broke into Greg's car and hauled McBride out. The paramedics assessed him, too, and determined that he would be riding in the back of one of the patrol cars to the hospital. Greg needed their immediate attention more than he did.

"Go with him, Gil. We can get someone from day shift to process this."

Grissom nodded his thanks, his eyes never leaving Greg's body as he was lifted into the ambulance. "See you later, Jim."

With that the CSI supervisor hauled himself into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics moved and gave him room to sit all the while fussing over their patient and the stab wound in his gut. Greg however was blind to all the attention he was getting as he'd finally fallen unconscious.

Grissom looked intently at his young lab rat and sighed.

"You'll be okay, Greg," he said softly.

_

* * *

_

Two weeks later…

"Hey, Griss!"

Grissom turned to see Greg emerging from the DNA lab to intercept Grissom's path.

"I've got those results you asked for," he said brightly as he held out a print out with his still splinted left wrist.

"Thank you, Greg," Grissom replied. He peered over his glasses at the young man in front of him. "How are you doing?"

Greg shrugged. "Ah, you know…fine. Glad to be back at work."

"Good, Greg. Did you enjoy being in the field?"

At that Greg's smile fell.

"Do I take that as a 'no'?"

"No, no it's not that…it's just that I…I messed up, you know? I heard everyone was talking about it…"

"No. You didn't mess up, Greg. All the lab talks about now is how brave you were to have taken down McBride."

"Oh," Greg said with a nod and a bright smile. "Well, then…I enjoyed it fine. Minus the whole stabbing thing, of course. And hey—if you guys ever need help, you know, with capturing convicts or whatever, Super Greg is here to lend a hand."

With that Greg saluted his boss and retreated back into his lab, where he promptly turned up his stereo so the glass walls practically reverberated from the sound. Grissom shook his head at the lab rat's antics, the smile never leaving his face after he finally turned away, now content that everything in the lab was back to normal.

**END.**

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First off I just wanna say "holy crap thanks for all the awesome reviews everybody" :) I hope this action packed ending lived up to your expectations, though I kind of half assed the ending. Secondly, I do have another, longer CSI story in the works that mayble you guys can read sometime, provided I write a beginning. Though it would be pretty cool (and confusing) to post out of order. And hey, if you really want to read something that's both confusing and fun, check out my National Treasure story--it's guaranteed to entertain one way or another.


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